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Family
by LYAT MELESE (United States)
August 2022
My mother fries chicken for dinner
says she hasn’t seen real chicken in America
by LINDA KONG (United States)
April 2022
The Zhou famiy typically ate dinner at a rectangular table for four.
by PRIYA CHAWLA (UAE)
April 2022
"Who are they?" Roshni asked her aunt as she poured the chai into different cups
by LINDA KONG (United States)
April 2022
The Zhou family typically ate dinner at a rectangular table for four.
by PRIYA CHAWLA (United Arab Emirates)
April 2022
“Who are they?” Roshni asked her aunt as she poured the chai into different cups
by REBECCA PARK (United States)
April 2022
As we approach the river, the sight between its two bridges is my worst nightmare.
by ALENA LIN (Singapore)
April 2022
With plates of food in hand, you are forced to greet vaguely familiar faces.
by ELOISE DAVIS (United Kingdom)
November 2021
My dad and I have come to the mutual realisation that he can't force me to help him out in the garden.
by SHAYNA LENG (Singapore)
November 2021
Their shells pricked my fingers, the spikes digging tauntingly into my skin.
by RUTH PAZ (Sweden)
November 2021
I don't even know if our sweet little lilac, right in the corner of the garden, still blooms in summer.
by IZRAHMAE SUICO (The Philippines)
November 2021
A falling star taught her how to wish, but a falling star apple trunk taught her something else.
by BRIELLE YOUNG (United States)
September 2021
The story my grandfather told continues to shape me today.
by MAXWELL SURPRENANT (United States)
September 2021
I long for the day when lockdown ends and I can safely visit Evie again.
by TIFFANY LEONG (United States)
July 2021
I knew Chinatown best on Saturdays,
the November kind
by AMALIA COSTA (United Kingdom)
April 2020
We act like we're pleasantly thrust together instead of a family bound by grief and love.
by AILEEN BAK (Australia)
April 2021
As a Haenyeo, a Korean sea-woman, her day was just beginning, even before the sun rose in the bitter oceanic cold to ready herself to dive for her day's catch.
by TULA SINGER (Cuba)
April 2021
The embassy called and approved our request to leave the country. So we packed our clothes and a couple of other essentials, leaving the rest behind.
by KOBY CHEN (Canada)
April 2021
When my mother and father had left for the west, they brought few things with them.
by TUNA SAGDAN (Turkey)
April 2021
As a child, my relationship with my dad was very straightforward. I'd ask him for something and he'd say "yes" or "no."
by ARI (United States)
April 2021
In the jungles of Aklan stands a statue of a man I've never met.
Stands a monument to a face I've never seen.
by VIVIAN ZHI (Canada)
December 2020
My words can be a sense of comfort, a feeling of being understood, a thought, an awakening.
by ANNIE KIRKPATRICK (United States)
December 2020
Rice piled on my plate like a cold white ant bed. Mom adjusted her glasses again.
by ANYA WILSON (Ireland)
December 2020
When I arrive home, there are men outside our cottage. But these are not my dada's friends.
by TULA SINGER (Cuba)
August 2020
My mother came into the kitchen with a blank face. "We're leaving," she said. "We're going to move in with Ahmad in New York."
by OTTAVIA PALUCH (Canada)
August 2020
People evaporate.
But not as quickly as water.
by LEE GAINES (United States)
August 2020
you have learned there is both good and bad about where you live.
you have learned the stubbornest people on the planet are Southern.
by EVE DONALDSON (United Kingdom)
April 2020
"But Dad, a dog is the animal for me -
I'll take him for walks and I'll make him his tea."
by AMALIA COSTA (United Kingdom)
April 2020
We act like we're pleasantly thrust together instead of a family bound by grief and love.
by MAY ZHENG (United States)
December 2019
Air sticks to my skin,
like honey. mosquitos circle my ankles and wrists
by SIRIN JITKLONGSUB (Thailand)
December 2019
These are the scents I will take with me when I leave this house.
by MERIT ONYEKWERE (United States)
December 2019
When Uchechi’s voice crackles with laughter and her almond brown eyes crease . . .
by SAACHI GUPTA (India)
December 2019
There’s a moment in kindergarten when I realize that the other grandparents don’t smile.
by MELISSA XU (United States)
September 2019
I grew up eating an excessive amount of eggs. Actually, that’s a little misleading.
by ROSALEEN SWEITI (United States)
September 2019
There's a sort of spell that falls over the dinner table as we wait for the athan to sound.
by BAYA LAIMECHE (United States)
September 2019
She spoke with her hands, weaving stories out of air and breathing life into them . . .
by ISABEL ALTAMIRANO (Canada)
April 2019
"Vente, mi amor, help me with dinner." I bound over to the kitchen, shooting a full-brace grin up at my abuela. She chuckled, patting me on the back, and led me to the counter.
"Here is the recipe", she said, waving to an ancient book . . .
by ANNIE CHENG (United States)
April 2019
You always liked to watch the trains as they passed by, one after another, right on schedule. You liked the whooshing sound of the breaks as the train slowed into the station, and the whirring of the engine as it started up again.